


The Get Your Kicks on Route 66 Affair

by james



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Case Fic, Established Relationship, M/M, Slice of Life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-10
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-18 06:34:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7303372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/james/pseuds/james
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They're on a case, but that doesn't mean everything else stops.  In fact, sometimes being on a case is the only time things can start.</p><p> </p><p>  <em>Subtitled: The Napoleon Can't Read a Map Affair</em></p>
            </blockquote>





	The Get Your Kicks on Route 66 Affair

**Author's Note:**

  * For [templemarker](https://archiveofourown.org/users/templemarker/gifts).



"Why did you do this to me?" Napoleon asked, dropping his suitcase just inside the door. He'd taken a single step inside then stopped, and as far as Gaby could see, he had no intention of moving further inside the room.

"What on Earth are you complaining about?" Gaby asked him. She knew perfectly well why he was upset, but _she_ thought the little motel was charming and delightful. It was small, certainly, and the rooms were so cheap that Napoleon had nearly had an outburst at the front desk. But it was clean and quiet. Best of all, they'd received word from Waverly that the forgers they were after were still a day's travel behind them, which meant at least one day of sitting by the pool relaxing and poking about the sleepy little American town to see what it had to offer.

Napoleon folded his arms, glaring at the room and actually flinching when his eyes caught sight of the painting of a sailboat hanging on the far wall. Gaby had no idea what it was, other than a cheap print meant to make the rooms' residents think it was art. Napoleon shuddered. "When you said we were driving to Miami--" he began.

"'Through', not to," Illya said, pushing his way into the room past Napoleon. He appeared completely unsurprised at Napoleon's reaction to the room and, further, appeared to have no sympathy for him at all. Then again, Illya had been stuck in the driver's seat for the past two hours with Napoleon to keep him company while Gaby read and napped in the backseat. Napoleon had been complaining about the countryside since the moment they'd left Chicago.

It was a small wonder they hadn't strangled him the very first day, Gaby thought. But at least they'd still had work to keep them focused. Pretending to be friends making the drive down Route 66, they'd stopped at almost all the attractions, eating at the diners and taking loads of photos. The special cameras they were using had lenses just slightly off, so they could aim at one thing but take a photo of what was slightly to the left or right. They'd been taking photos of the crowds, searching for their targets without anyone being the wiser.

The second day had started well enough, then gone rapidly downhill as Napoleon reminded them time and again that he was not meant for small towns and a countryside full of corn and soybeans. Gaby had been the one to book the motel, getting two rooms and very decisively shutting herself inside one of them. In the morning Napoleon seemed quieter and more relaxed, if still not whole-heartedly welcoming of their assignment. Over breakfast, Illya had given Gaby a very slight smirk.

Today, however, the motel they'd stopped at was nearly full and she'd had to take Napoleon's arm and assure the desk clerk that she and her husband did not mind sharing with her husband's brother. Which meant that Napoleon was going to be grumpy all evening, all night, and well into tomorrow. Unless, of course, Gaby took it upon herself to go spend a couple of hours sight-seeing in the little town.

Which she was absolutely going to do, and do right now if Napoleon didn't shut up.

"You said Miami," Napoleon repeated, giving Illya a betrayed look. Illya just snorted and went about unpacking his suitcase. "This is not Miami," Napoleon said, turning to Gaby with a woebegone expression.

"It is very much indeed Miami," Gaby pointed out. The motel had stationary and brochures arranged neatly on the table; she picked one up and showed Napoleon the cover. "Miami, Oklahoma, right on Route 66. If you'd paid attention to Waverly's briefing, you would have known we weren't going to Florida."

"All I heard was we were driving across the country like tourists to try to figure out how the Delany brothers were getting their forgery plates transported. I heard convertible, driving, and I distinctly heard him say 'driving _to_ Miami."

"He said through," Illya said. "Miami is one of our contact points, which was why he mentioned it at all. Waverly said all of this to your face; you even nodded."

"I was thinking about palm trees and bathing suits," Napoleon said, and Gaby saw him glance down the length of Illya's body very briefly. 

She approved – she'd seen Illya in his swim trunks just two months ago, when they'd been tracking down a murderer on the beaches of Spain's east coast. They'd had to argue him into it, citing the need to blend in and look like they were normal people on holiday and not undercover spies. Now, naturally, it was Illya who was comfortable with blending in and Napoleon who was fussing. Illya was giving Napoleon a very disapproving look.

Napoleon glared back, then he sighed, shoulders dropping as he deflated, and sank into the chair beside him. "You knew what I thought," he accused. "And you sat there and let me talk about beaches all morning while you drove us further and further away from the beach."

"Yes," Illya said, without the slightest bit of sympathy or even much interest. "That is exactly what we have done. The fact we have been driving West for three days was not a clue for such a skilled international spy as you."

Napoleon opened his mouth to retort, then he stopped. Gaby giggled as he tried and failed to come up with a retort. She wasn't certain if he'd actually failed to notice, or if his complaints were in place of other things he didn't want to say. Over the last two years she'd learned to read him, somewhat, but there were still times she had no idea if he really meant the things he was saying. Perhaps he was complaining about the countryside to cover for other complaints he couldn't voice; perhaps he was merely running his mouth to entertain himself or Illya. Gaby didn't know and she felt bad that Napoleon couldn't have said those things in front of her. But then, it wasn't safe in this world for many of the things she felt certain Napoleon would have liked to say aloud, and Illya in return. 

When Napoleon turned his glare to her, she just shrugged. "We will end up in Los Angeles anyhow, so you can have your palm trees and beaches as much as you like. Unless we find the information we're looking for before then and Waverly has us fly home early."

Napoleon waved a hand in consternation. "Fly back from where? Have you seen an airport? Do any of these little towns we've been driving through even know what a plane is? I'm not getting on a crop duster, I'm telling you right now."

Gaby rolled her eyes. "Right. I'm done. I'm going to meet with our contact and see if they have any more information about the Delany brothers' whereabouts. If they've turned around and are driving back to Chicago I'd like to know."

Illya turned his attention to her, away from exchanging exasperated frowns with Napoleon. "I will come with you."

"No, if anyone has to go with her, it should be me. Since I'm her husband this time." Napoleon sighed, but stood up.

Gaby held her hand up. "Neither of you is going to accompany me. I am going to ask the lovely girl at the front desk where I can have a light lunch, and where is the best shopping, and I will be out for at least two or three hours."

"It isn't safe for you to go alone," Illya protested, but his tone was telling her that he was already half-convinced.

"We are in the middle of nowhere," Napoleon said, and from the look on his face he'd figured out exactly what Gaby's plan was. They didn't talk about it – they couldn't, but that didn't mean she couldn't approve, nor that she couldn't find ways to carve out some time for them to be alone. Back in London, or even New York, it should have been easier but was, in fact, much more difficult with the CIA and KGB being able to keep close tabs on their agents. Gaby knew they managed something, somehow, and she was very careful never to ask.

But times like these were practically made for stolen moments and she was happy to go have a pleasant afternoon away from Napoleon's complaining in order to give them a little time together.

"We are on one of the most popular tourist attractions the United States has to offer," Gaby said. "The roads are filled with middle-class families and college students on holiday. And I hope you are not implying I cannot take care of myself." Gaby raised one eyebrow.

Napoleon grinned. "Of course not! You go, have lunch, enjoy the sights – if this not-really-Miami town has anything of the sort to offer. Illya and I will..discuss tomorrow's travel plans."

"Of course." Gaby nodded and looked over to Illya, who was doing a very good job of keeping all expression off his face as he nodded to her. 

"You will contact us if there is any trouble," he said, his eyes not quite making contact with hers as he looked instead at Napoleon. She was, she thought, already half-forgotten.

"Of course." Gaby grabbed her purse and a sunhat and her sunglasses, and slipped them on. Napoleon looked like he'd already forgotten his complaints about where they were, and as she got to the front door he was already walking over to Illya. As she pulled the door open, she heard Illya whisper something, quiet but terse, and Gaby swallowed a smile that Illya was probably admonishing Napoleon to wait at least until she was gone and the door closed behind her.

She waited outside the door to hear the click of the lock, then she adjusted her hat, and walked away.


End file.
